


Burn

by Mike_H



Series: MadaTobi Week [17]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 18:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mike_H/pseuds/Mike_H
Summary: Prompt:Feral(fromMadaTobi Week 2019).





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WrithingBeneathYou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/gifts).

> Prompt: _Feral_ (from **[MadaTobi Week 2019](https://madatobiweek.tumblr.com/post/182718063236/madatobi-week-2019)**).

In a previous life, Madara thinks, they would have been enemies.

Tobirama would have been a force of nature. His weapon of choice: a sword, glinting like death and moonlight. He would have been a conqueror, a tyrant, a hero. Corpses at his feet. Blood upon his face, his hair, his grinning mouth.

Tobirama would have been death.

  


* * *

  


In this life, there is barely a difference.

They are something like enemies like rivals like friends, and Tobirama is still a monster.

The setting: a hallway in the Innocenti Famiglia safe house. Before them, their enemies. Behind, a trail of corpses.

And Tobirama. He is a storm, a forest fire, raging and blazing through them like an unstoppable disaster. His blade meeting flesh, sinking, tearing. Fear upon the air, in the eyes of their enemies, these doomed men.

Blood spatters the front of Tobirama's suit. Blood upon his hair, his face. Stark like the tattoos upon his pale skin. He is a sight that thieves Madara of his breath, makes his grip tighten around the hilt of his own sword.

He wishes he could slow time. Does not want to miss every moment of this. Tobirama's eyes, dark and gleeful, like his grin, like his body that dances. He is a wave, crashing through the ranks of the Innocenti grunts. They fall like toppled chess pieces. He hardly breaks a sweat.

Madara feels his blood singing, screaming beneath his veins. Even amid battle, his gaze finds its way to Tobirama. He often finds Tobirama looking back. They are always watching each other. Madara looks at Tobirama like a come-on. Tobirama's eyes, burning like a threat, a promise. Madara's pants get uncomfortably tight.

Sound of blood roaring in his ears. The gleaming metal of Tobirama's blade, dyed crimson. They are surrounded, and then they are not, bodies felled before him. Unstoppable, uncageable, this wild thing. Tobirama is insanity personified. He is every nightmare come to life.

There is but one enemy left. Madara watches the way he trembles as Tobirama advances.

Madara trembles too, for different reasons. His eyes upon Tobirama, unwavering.

Tobirama, broad-shouldered, steel-spined. He takes his time. The enemy barely gets the chance to move. Tobirama is there, before him, tip of his sword in his enemy's gut, penetrating, slowly sinking.

Madara's hitched breath is lost in the man's dying scream.

  


* * *

  


Later, it's a rough, hard fuck against the hood of their car.

Rain beats down upon them like an angry thing, trails of crimson streaking their bodies, pooling upon the ground.

The enemy's safe house a few feet away. It is a wretched, wrecked thing. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and blood, of Tobirama and the storm.

Madara breathes deep. Fills his lungs with it all. They always say that sex leads to a little death, but for Tobirama, it works both ways. Madara knows this, arms and legs wrapped around Tobirama, clinging to him like their hair sticking to their faces, their suits that cling to their skin.

Tobirama fucks him, warrior's glint in the dark lakes of his eyes. Here is a conqueror claiming his prize. The violent thrust of his hips. His hands beneath the bend of Madara's knees. He is ruthless. Rough. Unkind.

Tobirama's kisses are savage bites, bruising Madara's lips, breaking the skin of his neck, his shoulders, his chest, any part of him that Tobirama can reach.

There is no scar on Madara's body that Tobirama is not — in some way — responsible for. Madara wears them like badges of honor, but how could he not, when Tobirama looks upon him like he is all that is worth looking at in this godforsaken world?

And Tobirama's gaze is a damning thing. His eyes, darkened and disfigured with bloodlust and desire, piercing like the blade he wields as an extension of himself.

Tobirama is many things. He is destruction. Chaos made art made sin. A temptation, unspeakable. His touch sears Madara's skin. His gaze is hellfire.

In his arms, Madara would willingly — gladly — burn.


End file.
